


if you could bottle love and sell it

by dip_dyed_ghost



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Amortentia, First Kiss, Getting Together, Love Potion/Spell, M/M, Mutual Pining, Truth Serum, Veritaserum, requited love but they're both oblivious
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:28:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23030107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dip_dyed_ghost/pseuds/dip_dyed_ghost
Summary: amortentia: the most powerful love potion in the world.When an unfortunate situation causes Keith to accidentally reveal his crush, someone thinks it'd  be funny to dose him with a love potion for the object of his desires.
Relationships: Keith/Lance (Voltron)
Comments: 22
Kudos: 482





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> based off of [this](https://itallstartedwithharry.tumblr.com/post/122218870529/propercy-alright-so-we-all-know-that-during-an) tumblr post. the idea inspired me, plus i adore love potion aus, and thus this fic was born. hope you enjoy :)

Lance frowns at the pitiful concoction in his cauldron. Beside him, Pidge is sat balancing on the legs of her chair, looking around the room and waiting for everyone else to finish. Her potion is perfect - bubbling, shimmery pink, and thick as honey, matching the exact description in their text book.

Lance’s is a weird grey-blue glop that may or may not be starting to eat away at the pewter it lies in. 

“Pidge,” he whines, slouching in his chair. “Can you fix this? I’ll pay you in corn nuts.”

She gives him a look. Lance sticks out his bottom lip, his entire face pleading, until Pidge finally sighs and lets her chair fall down, inching her head forward and taking an experimental whiff. She retreats back so fast her front chair legs fly up again and everything teeters towards the floor. Lance reaches out and steadies it before tragedy can strike. 

“Why does it smell _rotten_?” she asks, still balancing, in no hurry to get back to it. 

“I don’t know! I followed all of the steps to a T!”

Pidge scoffs. “Clearly, you didn’t.” She lets her chair fall forward, and motions for Lance to check out hers. “ _This_ is what it’s supposed to smell like.”

Lance narrows his eyes and inhales, expecting something sweet. What he gets instead is nothing of the sort - there’s undertones of freshly cut grass mixed with fresh air, and hints of bread baking somewhere in the distance. It shouldn’t go together, but the potion has a way of combining them yet still keeping them separated that just seems to work. Like complimentary colours.

The most pungent smell he can pick out of it all is something clean. It’s fresh and daring and ready, and Lance wracks his brain to figure out what it is.

“What do you smell?” he asks Pidge.

She scoffs. “I’m not telling you.”

“Will you tell me?” Hunk pipes in. He’s sat on Lance’s right, his potion a less shimmery pink, though still a good quality. His scents are muted but still there. 

She pauses. “Your face almost got me,” Pidge says. “Still not sharing, though.”

Lance leans over Pidge’s cauldron again. He’s met with same smells as before, and his brows furrow as he concentrates. Two of the scents make sense - the grass and fresh air are from quidditch, and the baking bread is from his mom’s garlic knots, an epitome of home. He tries to place the other one, but he keeps coming up short. Fresh air by the ocean? Maybe something to do with water? Some kind of…shampoo? 

Soon enough, Lance doesn’t even need to be inhaling Pidge’s potion in order smell it. The scent is in the air all around them, emanating from his classmate’s cauldrons like slow explosions, pink mist and soft sparkles expanding to fill all corners of the room. 

The clean smell is really bugging him now. He keeps getting wisps of a memory, of a thought, of an explanation, but they all escape before they can form completely, like water slipping through the cracks of his fingers. 

“When do you guys think Keith is going to show up?” Hunk asks. “Is he sick?”

Pidge shrugs. “He’s probably just skipping.” She pours her potion into a bottle, pushes on a cork, and points at it with her wand, a 9-inch unicorn hair core. Her rounded glass seals with a pop. “Maybe Lance would know?” she says, a suggestive tone to her voice that Lance doesn’t appreciate at all. 

“Why would I know where he is?” 

Of course, he knows why she’s looking at him like that. It’s not like he’s subtle. 

Her and him spend days lounged in the common room together; Pidge playing chess against some kind of spirit no one could see, Lance casting spells into the fire to see what they would do, all while lamenting about _Keith-this_ or _Keith-that_ \- how stupid his hair looked today, what impulsive thing he’d done now, occasionally letting a comment slip about how talented Keith was, which, _no_ , he was decidedly not. 

Lance has no idea what everyone sees in his badass, mysterious exterior. No idea at all. _Cough cough_. 

The door to the classroom slams shut, and everyone’s heads whip towards the noise. Keith stands there wincing, shoulders up to his ears, his one hand outstretched as if he had tried to stop the door from closing. He uses that same hand to give a little wave to professor Coran, then walks over to his seat, the faintest hint of pink staining his cheeks. 

“Found him,” Lance mutters. 

Keith puts his bag down beside Hunk’s and joins them at their round table for four. His nose scrunches up like the snout of an angry dog, and he gives Lance a dirty look. 

“Haven’t you ever heard of modesty?” Keith asks.

Lance bristles, not used to arguments he doesn’t have to start. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means that you didn’t have to bathe in a pool of cologne this morning.” He takes some ingredients out of his bag and places them on the table. “Seriously, did you use the whole bottle? The class reeks of it.”

“Well _excuse you_ for being sensitive,” Lance says, straightening the lapel of his cloak. “I put on a perfectly modest amount, thank you very much.”

Pidge stops moving, her potion in one hand and wand in the other, becoming as still as an art model. Her eyes dart to Hunk’s, but Lance barely notices. 

“Where’ve you been, anyway?” Lance questions. “Off playing hooky again, I’d bet.” 

“I slept in,” he replies. “And I could smell your cologne out in the hallway.” Keith throws up his hands. “What part of that does not scream ‘excessive’ to you?”

“Bullshit,” Lance calls, “you would’ve smelled the potions more than anything.”

That stops him. Keith puts his hands down, seeming to notice the diluted pink air for the first time, and his eyes find the black board where Professor Coran has chalked the page number of today’s potion. Pidge and Hunk are communicating telepathically, Hunk having a mini meltdown with hand movements as she shakes her head in disbelief, shushing him with one finger. Hunk barely listens, settling for pushing his open textbook in front of Keith - it’s on the page showing amortentia, complete with a glass heart-shaped bottle and a description of its properties.

Keith’s face pales a concerning amount as he scans the yellowed pages. Lance has the brief image of him with the pixie flu in fourth year, when he was bed bound and couldn’t hold down food for a week, his skin so pale and clammy to the touch that he looked moments away from needing to be buried.

Keith shoots a glance into Pidge’s cauldron to confirm his findings. All traces of his emotions are wiped away at the sight of the pink sparkly liquid. 

“Oh,” he whispers, ever so quietly, the sharpest edge of fear condensed into that one word. Lance can only stare; he’s never heard him so afraid, not even during the times they’ve nearly faced death. 

Facts start connecting and firing fast after that. “Wait,” Lance says, can barely voice, but before he can finish his thought, Keith cuts him off. 

“Shut up.” His voice is quick and shaky. “Just- shut up. We’re ignoring this.” Keith looks to Pidge, then to Hunk. “This didn’t happen. I’m not- I’ll fucking obliviate all of you if I have to. Don’t think I won’t.”

Lance casts his eyes down to his potions book, re-reading the line he already knows: _Amortentia smells like what a person is most attracted to._

Wait a minute. Hold the phone. Lance needs to breathe, because, what?

Keith…likes him. Or more accurately, likes the way he looks. Lance dares a glance at him. He’s the same as always: black hair, intense eyes, the slightest definition showing through his white button-up, a perpetually loose tie slung around his neck because he refuses to restrict himself in any shape or form. Looking good in that purposely dishevelled way of his. 

Lance hasn’t let himself think about Keith as anything other than a friend in weeks. He doesn’t count his midnight musings, where he imagines a world where Keith would consider someone like him - someone too loud and too annoying and missing a few too many cool points - because it’s so unrealistic it hurts.

And listen, Lance wasn’t going to sit here and pretend to himself that he has a sense of modesty about his looks - he’s attractive, and he knows it. But you can like the way someone looks and not like _them_ , and there’s the scratch that stops his celebration record short.

Sometimes, attraction really is just skin deep. 

“Well,” Lance says, needing to say something before his internal monologue straight up kills him, “who wouldn’t want a piece of this?”

For a few long moments, he thinks Keith is going to lose it. Pidge and Hunk play it safe and stay silent. Keith finally settles, jaw clenched as he shakes his head, getting out the rest of the ingredients he needs. 

“Stop talking,” he says.

Lance mimes zipping his mouth shut. 

Keith gets right to work, grinding down some moonstone in his mortar, tearing off some rose petals, combining all of the ingredients in his cauldron. It seems normal. Pidge and Hunk finish their potions off, too. Also normal.

Lance has to physically retrain himself from saying anything more. He needs time to think. 

***

Lance doesn’t have a good reason as to why he hasn’t said anything to Keith yet. 

Even if Keith didn’t like him beyond his looks, which, okay, that’s fair, they could still have a fling of sorts - a temporary situation to pass the time and ease any stress or extra tension. He could see it now, how perfect it’d be: rushed touches in a secluded dormitory, their pants echoing out into the air, the satisfaction of getting off with another person instead of just your own hand. 

Fuck, that’d be nice. 

…But then Lance would have to deal with his stupid crush-that-he-isn’t-calling-a-crush, because if he’s being honest with himself, real soul-searchingly honest, it’s more than physical attraction. It’s _Keith_. Talented, unobtainable Keith, who never shows interest in anyone and rejects anyone who shows it to him. 

It’s been a few days and although he still talks to Keith as he did before, they’re not talking about what was revealed in class that day. It's like it never happened. The only real difference is how now Keith avoids touching him as if it pains him.

The loud hum of hundreds of people talking at once fills the dining hall, punctuated by the odd clatter of a plate or mug at one of the four long tables. Keith sits across from him, a red and gold tie hung loosely around his neck. He's holding a piece of dry toast.

“Here,” Lance says, picking up the ceramic platter of butter and passing it to him, a butter knife balancing on the corner. Keith grabs the edge closest to him, and Lance notes how hard he's trying to avoid the touch of their fingertips.

Keith doesn't grab enough. The moment Lance lets go, the plate of butter slips from his hands, smashing onto an empty tray of food in the centre of the table. Nothing breaks, but the noise is loud enough to silence those in their immediate vicinity.

“Sorry," Keith says, wincing, a look of slight anger on his face. Lance knows him well enough to attribute it to an annoyance at himself.

“Careful, butterfingers." Lance can't help but annoy him a little. "Think you gave a few first years a heart attack.”

"That's their problem,” he mutters.

Lance watches as Keith picks up the tray from where it fell and starts buttering his toast, digging in hard enough to create a small shower of crumbs.

“I got a letter from my mum yesterday,” Lance says, voice light and the littlest bit strained. "You should’ve seen Butterscotch. I have no idea how she’s still flying, the old bat.” He pops a piece of scone in his mouth and tilts his head. “Y'know, she’d make a better bat than owl. No feathers to lose."

Keith hums in acknowledgement. "Don't chew with your mouth open."

Lance swallows. "Don't you want to know what my mum said?"

Keith shrugs. He starts on his toast, saying no more, and Lance wishes Pidge and Hunk were here, and not out on a two-day school field trip looking for endangered magical creatures. At least they'd want to hear what he had to say.

It's okay. Eventually, Keith’ll get over what’s put him in a less-than-stellar mood, and they can get back to what they had before the whole amortentia incident. Not that he'd ever tell him, but Lance misses their playful pushes and occasional fist-bumps. He wants them back.

It’s not always strained. Sometimes, if it was late enough, and they were existing between the night hours when sharing became easy, or if they’d had enough of the firewhiskey Keith traded one of the house elves for, it felt...different. Like they were more than friends by circumstance, or something. Keith became kind. And sort of thoughtful. And if Lance was lucky, and he means _lucky_ , he could get him to laugh in a way he only ever heard when they were alone, all open and free, like he was a completely different person. It always made pride well in Lance’s chest.

But they never pushed that mood in the light of day. 

Lance has a sudden clarity as to who’s shampoo he was smelling in potions class.

Keith takes a sip of his pumpkin juice. His face contorts, lips pursing in an uncomfortable line.

“Is yours sweeter than usual?” Keith asks.

Lance ignores his new revelation in favour of acting normal, so he sniffs his drink before taking a sip. He pauses, letting it sit on his tongue, but it's no different than the usual tart-cinnamony taste. He shakes his head.

"Why? What's wrong with yours?”

Keith doesn't answer. Instead, he stares at him, eyes slightly unfocused and his cheeks flushed with the lightest pink, and he blinks slowly, like he can’t quite understand what he’s seeing. 

"You okay?” Lance asks, hesitance in his voice.

Keith takes ahold of his plate and moves it to the side. He does the same to his drink, Lance’s plate, his cup of juice, and the empty tray in the middle. Before Lance can ask what on earth he's doing, Keith has stepped onto the table and started crossing it.

“ _Keith_. What-” Lance cuts himself off as Keith drops down beside him. He’s left no space between them on the bench, their thighs pressed close together. To Lance’s surprise, Keith, who’s been known to complain of cold hands and feet, is burning up, heat emanating off him in waves.

“Keith?"

“I-” he starts, stops. “I don't know what's happening.”

Lance places his hand on Keith’s forehead. Keith doesn't move back like he expects. His eyes flutter shut, and he leans into Lance's palm, lips parting the tiniest bit.

“You’re burning up,” Lance says. He reaches across the table to snag Keith’s drink, the cold condensation on the plastic dampening his hand. "Here," he tells him, pressing the cup to Keith's hand, “drink."

Keith downs half of it in one go. He holds the partially drained cup with both hands, looking at Lance like a child. “Enough?” 

“Sure." Lance reaches out to grab the pumpkin juice. Keith doesn't move his hands away; he curls them completely around the cup, ensuring touch between them. Despite the cold cup, his hands are warm like the rest of him, rough skin from years of work brushing against Lance, who takes great care not to spill a drop.

That's when he smells it.

Fresh, green grass, the kind that lines the quidditch pitch dozens of feet below him. Thick and doughy garlic knots that would permeate his home on weekends. That fresh watery scent he’s sure is Keith’s shampoo. 

Lance looks down at the cup in his hands, at the slight sparkle in the orange liquid that catches the sunlight pouring in from the giant windows, and looks back to Keith, who’s staring at him like he leads the universe.

Lance lets out a nervous laugh. “What? No.” 

Keith simply smiles. His hand travels to Lance’s leg, ghosting over his uniform’s black pants, fingertips tracing light patterns near his knee. It makes Lance shiver. 

“This is not happening,” Lance squeaks. He puts the cup down on the table but then thinks better of it, picking it back up as he stands, distancing himself as much as possible. “We’re going to find Coran.”

Keith follows without a word of protest. He falls in line beside him, their shoulders and hips pressed as close as possible while Lance tries to map out the fastest way to Professor Coran. It's no use - he always just followed Pidge or Hunk or Keith to their shared classes. He has a vague idea of where potions class is, but that's it. Stupid moving staircases. 

“Why do we need to see him?” Keith asks. A carefree smile is on his face. Lance feels a hand slip into his, and his heart misses a beat, the skip in his chest grounding him and reminding him that this is actually happening, that Keith is drugged, that he needs to find him help.

“What's the fastest way to potions class?” Lance asks. 

Keith tilts his head. "Why would we go there when we could go back to our rooms?"

It startles a stressed laugh out of Lance. “Yeah, no, that’s a bad idea. A real bad idea.”

“It’s not.” Keith entwines their fingers closer and squeezes, pulling Lance along as he walks deeper into the halls. “It’s not,” he repeats. “I’ll prove it to you.”

Lance doesn't need to reply: by some stroke of dumb luck, he spots a slicked-back head of ginger hair as they round a corner.

“Coran!” Lance shouts.

Coran turns around. His cloak rustles as he does so - he had gotten robes with the heaviest and most royal material available, adding dramatics and flair to every movement. The first time he wore it, Lance was not surprised.

"That's _Professor_ Coran to you, m’boy," he replies, not unkindly. Coran raises an eyebrow as he takes in the sight before him, Keith now holding Lance’s arm with the hand not currently entwined with Lance’s. He lays his head on his shoulder, sighing. Lance's face flames.

“Yeah, um, sorry. It's just - we have a problem.” Lance hands Coran the cup, eager to be rid of it. “Someone spiked his drink."

Coran, who had previously been open and mildly curious, changes his demeanour in an instant. His face darkens in a way Lance has never seen it before, and despite himself, he feels a tiny thrill of fear close his throat.

“Lance," Coran says calmly. “Did you put amortentia in Keith’s drink?"

“What?” Even just the thought makes him feel sick. “No!”

"Because if you did, that's a high-class offence."

"I didn’t,” Lance says quickly. "I swear. I had nothing to do with this. I just want help."

"I'll help you,” Keith whispers against his shoulder. Lance shushes him gently.

Lance can feel Coran studying him, his gaze causing the tiny hairs on his nape to stand up.

“Are you willing to prove it?”

He doesn’t know what Coran means by that, exactly, but he nods anyway, uncomfortably aware that Keith’s under a love potion with no inhibitions whatsoever. 

They follow Coran to his private office. It's somewhere on the third floor, located behind a thick mahogany door that has a bronze raven knocker on the front of it. The inside is the most cluttered space Lance has ever seen - there’s empty potion bottles toppled on every surface, books taken from the void spaces on one of his many bookshelves and scattered on the floor, random ingredients like rose petals and gridded bolts labelled and left in corners.

Coran places the cup of spiked pumpkin juice on his desk. He crouches, grabbing a key from his lanyard and unlocking a drawer. It squeaks as he opens it, its rusted hinges screaming in protest. He pays no mind, reaching inside and grabbing a bottle the size of a peanut, filled with a clear, shineless liquid. Lance has an idea of what it is. 

“Veritaserum,” Coran says, and Lance’s stomach sinks at the confirmation. A truth potion. Coran grabs a shot glass from a nearby cupboard, pops the cork on the potion, and pours about an ounce in. He hands it to Lance. "Go on."

This is going to suck, Lance thinks, before tossing back the potion in one go. It's bitter and smells of nail varnish, but other than feeling slightly repulsed, he doesn't feel any different. Lance gives the glass back to Coran.

“Did you put amortentia in Keith’s drink?” Coran asks, enunciating every word.

“No." Lance barely has time to process the question before his answer is torn from his mouth.

"Did you get someone else to put amortentia in Keith’s drink?”

“No."

"Are you in any way responsible for this?"

“No."

It's weird. With every question his brain kind of short circuits, some magical force digging up the answer without any say from him at all. Lance isn’t sure he’d be able to fight it even if he wanted to - the potion is too fast, too strong, too invisible to go up against and win. He itches for the counter-potion that’ll end it.

“My deepest apologies, Lance,” Coran says. "I had to be sure." He goes back to his desk and picks up the cup of pumpkin juice. He swirls it around, brings it in closer to smell. "This is a relatively low dose. He should be back to normal shortly."

Wait. “You mean you don't have a cure?” Lance asks.

Coran shakes his head. “There isn't one. Time is all we have.” He smiles ruefully. “Might do you well to take that as a general lesson, too.”

"What about me?” Lance tries his best to keep his voice calm. "The counter-potion for the veritaserum? You have that, yeah? "

"You didn't have much of that either. It should wear off at about the same time."

Coran gives them permission to miss all of their classes for today, letting their other professors know with a quick note thrown into his lit fireplace. He escorts them back to the empty Gryffindor dorms, where he instructs them to stay until things are back to normal. 

“Oh,” Coran says before he goes, a frazzled look overtaking his features. “Lance. Important. Will you keep Keith safe, and not take advantage while he’s…in this state?” 

“Yes,” Lance replies. 

“Good. Good.”

The silence is palpable once Coran leaves and the portrait door is swung shut. The only noise is the crackling of the fire, the odd log popping every few seconds. Keith is still holding his hand. Lance finds he doesn't hate it.

“Are you happy to be here with me?” Keith asks softly.

The answer is ripped from him. “Yeah." 

Damn. This was going to feel so long.


	2. Chapter 2

Lance is talking, but Keith is having a hard time paying attention to the words he’s saying. He’d much rather focus on how close they are, or how warm he feels next to him, or the way he looks in the firelight. Keith tunes back in as Lance gives him a serious look.

"Rule number one: you can't ask me any questions.”

“What?” Keith asks. “Why not?”

They're on a love-seat it in the main common area. For some reason Lance had tried to distance himself, but Keith wasn't having it: the second Lance tried to give him space, he protested like their closeness was what he cared about most, like he'd rather die than not be near him - because that's what it feels like, this thing filling his chest. Keith just wants to be close.

"Because I'll say things I don't want you to know,” Lance replies, then sighs deeply, all exaggeration and dramatics. "You literally _just_ failed rule number one.”

"Sorry," he mumbles. 

Keith curls up closer underneath Lance's right arm, his legs tucked up beside him, cushioned by the plushiness of the seat, and he lets himself bask in just how _nice_ it is. He can't remember the last time he's been this close to another person. He can't remember feeling this warm, or this safe. Lance’s heart goes wild when Keith slides his hand across the front of his button-up, quick pulses that he can feel beneath his fingers. 

“Your heart's beating really fast,” Keith says softly. Lance guides his hand away and back into his lap.

“Yep.” His voice is strained.

Okay…so Lance doesn’t seem to like being touched on his front. That’s fine - Keith can adapt, he can find the next best thing. Carefully watching for a reaction, Keith slides his hand onto his knee, then inches higher up his thigh. Lance yelps and slaps him away with a quick hand.

“ _Whoa_ , uh-” Lance shifts back "-maybe, maybe don't do that?" His voice goes pitchy at the end. He's tense beside him, nowhere near as comforted and loved as Keith’s trying to make him feel, so he moves back a little, getting a good look at his face. There’s panic there, and Keith frowns.

He wants to ask what's wrong, but then he remembers Lance's number one rule, so instead he sits there - sides still glued - and watches Lance run a hand through his hair. He’s just so - pretty, Keith decides. Not that he didn’t already know that. Soft, chestnut brown hair that curls after a hard day of quidditch practice. Collarbones that peek out of his shirt if the angle is right. Eyes so warm they remind him of coffee. Keith wants to be near that. He wants to touch. 

Keith reaches out to draw a finger across his jaw line, and whispers, "You're so pretty.”

Lance closes his eyes and breathes deeply. “Keith, my buddy, I’m gonna have to ask you to not say things like that.”

“Why not?” Keith asks, and he realizes a second too late that that was, in fact, a question. 

“You’re under a spell and don’t mean what you’re saying.” Lance squeezes his eyes shut, gives his head a little shake, then turns to look at Keith head on. “Keith, no questions.”

“Oh.” He latches onto the first part. “I…are you sure? This just feels like normal.”

Lance laughs, the pitch of it all wrong. “Am I sure that you’re under the influence of magic?” He looks him up and down, lingering on their sides that are still as close possible, Keith’s hand slowly inching its way back to Lance’s leg. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure about that.”

Keith focuses on himself for a moment. Sure, his head is a little fuzzy, like someone’s shut off all the heavy parts of his mind, and his limbs take a bit of effort to move, seemingly more affected by gravity than usual, and any other day he’d never have enough courage to end up like this with Lance, but…oh. 

Oh?

Oh.

It doesn’t bother him as much as he thinks it should. He should be worried and concerned and distancing himself until he’s sound of mind again, but…Keith just doesn’t care. Not when he’s close enough to feel every rise and fall of Lance’s chest, and definitely not when firelight dances across Lance’s cheekbones like split-second highlighter that makes him look like an earth-treading star. 

“To be drugged or not to be drugged, you are still pretty,” Keith says, the words light on his tongue and spoken without a second thought. 

Lance snorts. “Are you really quoting Shakespeare right now? A Shakespeare remix?” He turns to give him a look, one that Keith interprets as fond. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Shhh, I’m trying to compliment you.” Keith attempts to place a finger on Lance’s lips to silence him, but he jerks back, laughing and shoving. 

“Well that’s a first.” Lance’s open smile slowly fades into one that seems forced, and he settles back into place on their seat.

Keith thinks his sentence over several times to make sure it doesn’t ask anything. Hoping the question is implied, he says slowly, “You’re upset about something.”

Lance bites his lips. “I- hmm.” His leg bounces up and down. “Don’t worry your small, mulleted head about it. It’s nothing.”

“Go on, then. You love talking about nothing.”

That gets him a small laugh. Lance spends a considerable amount of time staring into the fire without saying anything. Just when Keith is about to encourage him some more, he starts talking. 

“You’re never going to speak to me after this, y’know? Not really.” Lance pushes his thigh into Keith’s, who returns the pressure right away. “We’ll awkwardly orbit each other's bubbles cause of Pidge and Hunk, like - like some kind of co-workers who hate each other and can't quit their jobs, and I don't _want_ us to quit our jobs, but you're going to send in both our resignations without talking to me first and I’ll be left-” Lance stops himself, fingers tapping his leg in a fast staccato. “I…I dunno. I just- I like being friends with you.”

Keith doesn't know what exactly he means by all that, but he can hear the distress in his voice loud and clear. He slides his right arm around Lance’s side and nestles his head into his chest.

“I like being your friend, too,” Keith mutters into the fabric. “I’m not gonna leave.”

Lance doesn’t move for a few moments. Keith is about to pull back, but then he feels Lance relax into it, his hand coming to rest atop his head with care.

“You are, though,” he says softly, his finger combing through Keith’s hair.

Then, with no other warning than the world tilting a few degrees in his vision, everything pops back into place, reality retaking its claim on him. Suddenly, Lance is sat way too close for comfort. Every muscle in Keith’s body tenses.

Keith shoots up and scrambles to the other side of the two-seat couch.

“Keith?” Lance asks, sitting up straighter. “Is it done?” Keith has no idea why, but if he’s not mistaken, Lance looks…disappointed? Sad, even?

Before he can even process what he’s supposed to say in a situation like this, his mouth starts talking for him. “I’m so sorry. I am _so_ sorry.” 

_God_. Lance didn’t ask for this. It wasn't his responsibility to babysit him in this messed up situation, or to do something that probably made him uncomfortable.

Even as a kid, Keith knew that getting too close was a bad idea. Back when he first met him, Lance had come up to him all brazen, boldened by his eleven years, and challenged him to a duel on the basis that he looked like someone who could take him in a fight. Keith took him down in ten seconds, and that was that. 

Much to his curiosity, Lance stayed. He kept bugging Keith and antagonizing him and sticking around until Lance was simply a part of his new life. Another person in his sphere. 

In the end, it was Lance’s light that did Keith in. It was evident in everything Lance did - the way he would smile without care, the way he moved like nothing could hurt him, the way he could talk for hours on end like connecting with people was just something he did. To Keith, opening up was like grinding glass with his teeth, but Lance shared himself with such ease that Keith could never be sure if what he was feeling was jealousy or awe. 

Keith was going to murder whoever thought that a love potion was a good idea for a prank.

“Hey, hey,” Lance tries, obviously noticing his mix of negative emotions, judging by the way he’s raising and lowering his hands in a soothing gesture. “It’s fine. Really. Do you need anything? Water? A trip to Madam Pomfrey’s?”

“You’re missing class,” Keith says, anger welling up in his chest at whoever inconvenienced them both like this. 

Lance shrugs. “So are you.” 

“How long was I…” he gestures between them. 

“Like, half an hour, maybe? Don’t look so pissed off,” Lance says, a slight tease in his voice. “I didn’t mind the ‘get-out-class-free’ card. I’m just glad you’re back now.”

Of course he is. Keith tries to put himself in Lance’s shoes, and the resulting awkwardness is enough to make him cringe. This is terrible. Keith was going to get made fun of so bad later. He could already picture it - Lance mocking the way he acted, playing it up for a cheap laugh, not realizing that it wasn’t funny to Keith and never would be. 

Or worse.

He can’t stand to think about that possibility - that Lance wouldn’t be able to deal with his pathetic crush anymore, now that he’d experienced a messed up impression of it first hand, and that it would make him too uncomfortable to be friends anymore. The thought makes Keith sick - how terrible it would be, if one thing, one tiny fact, made everything else Keith had to offer no longer worth it, and justified losing the only person he ever learnt to trust. 

_I like being friends with you._

Lance didn’t sound like he was lying. Then again, he’d always been a good actor. 

Keith huffs. “God, you must think I’m-” 

His words cut off abruptly, because through all of his panic and building nausea, through the world staring to crack around him, Keith remembers.

The veritaserum.

No. He couldn’t. Keith had done some questionable things in his life - stealing food as a child, punching a kid who thought he made a good target, cheating on tests to ensure a bright future - but this? It’d be highly unethical, asking anything of Lance when he didn’t even have the choice to lie. Keith wouldn’t do that to him.

He could, though. 

Keith wouldn’t have to worry anymore. If Lance was hiding his repulsion as a means to keep the peace between the group, well, that was honourable and all, but it wasn’t needed. Lance shouldn’t have to pretend. The truth might destroy Keith, but at least then he’d know.

He makes his decision. 

“Listen, what I’m about to do is for both of our benefits, all right?” Keith says, looking him right in the eye. “You won’t have to waste your time anymore.” 

“You kidding? I never waste my time.”

No turning back. 

“What do you think about my amortentia smelling like you?”

Keith can tell that the magic strikes hard this time, harder than any of the others, probably because this answer weighs so much _more_. Lance seems to push back against it, ultimately failing as pain drops his jaw open. “I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard,” he gasps out, tension easing once the magic is relieved.

Keith opens his mouth, then closes it. It’s like no sound wants to come out. 

“What?”

“I told you no questions!” 

He ignores the wild look on Lance’s face and focuses on processing what he just heard. 

“You…what?” Keith repeats, the prompt completely unnecessary. 

_I think it’s the best thing I’ve ever heard._

Lance interprets his second ‘what?’ as another genuine question. His face contorts as some kind of pain strikes him, and he groans before spiting out, “I’m happy that it smells like me,” voice all strained and breathy. “Oh, man, that hurts.”

Keith suppresses a wince. “Don’t fight it then.” What the hell is happening? “Why?” he asks, needing the answer to make sense.

“ _Stop asking questions_ ,” Lance rushes out, right before the potion strikes. “Cause I like you.” He says it pained. Like he really would have rathered not. His cheeks are flushed with colour.

Keith’s entire world view tilts. 

“No, you don’t.” He’s sure of this. 

Because why would he? Lance knows how to talk to people and make friends with whoever he wants to; he would never have to settle for someone too rash, too sharp, too prickly around the edges. This boy could have anyone, and here he is trying to convince Keith that he wants him. 

That he wants him _back_.

Lance lets out a long sigh. “Keith. My buddy. My man.” He claps at the end of each sentence. “Who here is currently under the influence of a truth serum?”

“It could’ve worn off.” He hates how petulant he sounds. 

“I wouldn’t have exposed myself like that if it had.” 

There’s a ball of hope welling in Keith’s chest, and he’s pushing it down, making it hide; this could all just be another prank. But Lance doesn’t look like he’s bluffing. He’s staring at Keith in a way he recognizes as open, as vulnerable, all take-it-or-leave-it because it’s not going anywhere. 

The ball of hope overwhelms him. 

“Are you really saying,” Keith starts, “that I embarrassed myself like that in class, _where multiple people heard me_ , and you didn’t think to say anything? Like, I don’t know, maybe ‘I like you too, Keith, so this isn’t as awkward as it seems?’”

Lance perks up slowly, like a flower with a sliver of sunlight. “Just because you think I’m a snack doesn’t mean you like me as a person,” he points out. 

“Well, I do.” The confession scares Keith to his core. “I do.”

Lance blinks. “You’re kidding.”

Words were never Keith’s strong suit; he was always more of a person who spoke through actions. In a way he hopes is smooth, he moves closer on the love-seat so that their thighs touch, reaches up to grab Lance’s neck, and leans in. He tries to put everything he feels into the kiss, ignoring how shaky his hand would be if it wasn’t holding on. It’s quick, chaste, only lasting a few seconds, but it leaves Keith feeling electric. He can feel his own heartbeat.

“Oh,” Lance breathes, pulling back. 

“Yeah.”

Lance moves back in. One of his hands finds the nape of Keith’s neck, the pressure soft and reassuring, the other landing on his hip and pulling him the littlest bit closer. Their mouths actually move this time and it sends tingles down Keith's spine. He can’t help but melt into it, each second that passes making him more and more dazed as the world fades away. It feels like they’re the only people in existence. 

Lance pulls back, and Keith has to stop himself from following. 

“So,” Lance starts, hand still on his neck, “wanna date?”

“Just like that?”

Lance snorts. “What, you want a mariachi band or something? A promposal-esque deal?”

“No,” Keith says, then quickly adds, “Yes. I mean, yes to you, not to the…band. Yes.”

“Yeah?”

He smiles. “Yeah.” 

Keith kisses him again. 

***

It’s days later when they find out who caused all of it. 

Hunk and Pidge came back from their trip tired and unharmed, except for Hunk’s minor burns. (“They had us looking for blast-ended skrewts. _Blast-ended skrewts_.”)

Pidge took one look at their joined hands in the common rooms and muttered a satisfied “knew it” under her breath, before promptly making fun of them for being interested in romance. Keith doesn’t mind, though; it seems like nothing could burst his newfound bubble of joy. It’s his and nobody can take it from him. 

That is, until breakfast at the end of the week.

The conversation the four of them are having is rudely interrupted by a holler, immediately followed by a student’s screech coming from the top of their long table. Keith knows without looking that it’s Peeves.

Peeves, the school’s poltergeist that came with the building, who for some reason took an interest in Keith his first year here and has yet to stop. Lance never fails to find it hilarious. 

“Aw, if it isn’t my favourite, shmavorite student,” Keith hears from above him, and he’s not surprised. It should be routine at this point. 

Keith continues eating his food and flips Peeves off without a glance. There are days when he’s fine dealing with a spirit of chaos, but today is not one of them; Keith just wants to press his foot up against Lance’s under the table and enjoy the pastries set out in bunches. 

Peeves dives down through the table, then pops up with just his head where Keith’s food is supposed to be. 

“Now don’t be like that, no, you owe me a thank you!” He rises up and swoops around, hollering, “If it weren’t for good golly old _moi_ , you would have both died alone like the rest of us. Harrumph! The youth of today have no manners.”

“What do you mean?” Lance asks. Keith sort of wishes he wouldn’t encourage him, but ever since they started school he’s been starstruck by Peeves’s sheer ability to cause chaos with barely lifting a finger.

Peeves clears his throat dramatically as he does each time he’s about to sing:

“Oh he’s but a pinner, a yearner, who inspires rumours through the hall,  
Oh what’s that? He likes the blue one? Then in love he shall fall!”

Keith bristles, then takes a deep breath. “Just ignore him,” he says, trying to enjoy a golden roll that tastes like a cinnamon bun. “He’s not worth any attention.”

“But I helped you, sweet child!” Peeves cries, plucking the bun straight from his hand. “You should be glad students gossip so much, or else I wouldn’t have heard about your little confession the other day. Then who would've encouraged things along, hmm?”

Keith scowls, momentarily distracted enough to not get what he’s saying. Then, it clicks. 

He stands up so fast from the table that nearby plates and glasses shake. 

“You-”

“Yesssss!” Peeves cuts him off, tossing the bun in his face. “Come on, Keithy, say thank you!”

Keith swats at him and misses, his fingers grabbing at air. He lunges for him, but again Peeves is too fast, flying over his head and somersaulting behind him.

“Catch me if you can!” Peeves singsongs as he tumbles down the rows between tables. 

“Don’t do it,” Pidge says, monotone, sitting back like she’s ready to watch the show. She reaches out for the air like an olden day actress. “Keith, it’s not worth it.”

“The hell it isn’t,” he says though gritted teeth, already up and starting to run after Peeves. “I’m going to kill him.”

Lance shouts after him, “But he’s already dead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tbh this whole thing took way too long to finish (it’s been sitting in my wip folder for like a year yikes) but points for getting things done amirite
> 
> thanks for reading <3  
> my [tumblr](https://dip-dyed-ghost.tumblr.com/)


End file.
